Thanks For Taking Care of Me
by SparkleHorse
Summary: Carly gets sick, Sam takes care of her. Slightly Cam.


Spencer has been checking in on you when he takes breaks from his sculpting downstairs, but for most of the day you've been in a hazy half-sleep under your heaviest, softest blanket. It's just enough to take the edge off your discomfort and to let your mind wander away from focusing on the phlegmy rattle in your chest.

It's early in the afternoon when you hear your bedroom door swing open quietly. You don't even bother to open your eyes; you just murmur "Hey, Spencer" so quietly you're not even sure you heard yourself.

"Hey, Cupcake," she says softly, as if asking if you're awake.

Your eyes snap open. You uncurl your body and shift from your side to see her leaning back on your bedroom door to close it. She's in her khaki cargo pants that she hacked off above the ankle, and her green, long sleeved Cuddlefish T-shirt. She's holding a large saucer in her hand, her thumb clamping its lid. Your limbs ache, but for the first time that day you feel like smiling, feel something good inside you just because she is in your room now with her magic hair lit by the random shafts of sunlight falling through your window blinds.

"Sam," you squeak. "What are you doing here?"

"Duh. I came to take care of you."

She moves to your bedside, sets the saucer on the dresser by your bed, and shrugs out of her vest. You glance at the clock on your night stand.

"School doesn't let out for another hour," you say.

"A girl can't skip?"

You can't help but chuckle. "How'd you know I was sick?"

"One, you weren't in school, which is always a bad sign. And two, you texted me about your headache that wouldn't go away."

"I texted you? I don't remember that."

"Aww," she says, kicking off her Chucks. "Half conscious Carly reaching out to her best friend for help and too delirious to even realize it." She sits on her side of the bed. "That makes me feel special."

"You are," you murmur, settling back to your side, letting your body relax into some semblance of comfort.

Her fingers rest on your forehead. "You're burning up," she says.

One of the good things about being sick is how sensitive it makes your skin, how it amplifies everything that touches you. Right now her four fingers feel like such soft, cool little bars of pleasure against you. It's like a valve turning somewhere and letting the tension drift out of you.

"Anyway," she says, "I brought you something for your headache." She turns for the saucer.

"What is it?"

"You probably don't want to know."

"Sam," you say, trying to effect your lecture voice.

"My uncle Seth came up with the recipe, and he's a doctor."

"Is he licensed?"

"Of course."

"In the U.S.?"

She thinks for a second. "Guam is technically in the U.S."

You sigh and sit up. "Fine, let me have it."

She passes it to you. It's hot and tastes just like the egg drop soup at BF Wang's. "This is good," you say as you feel its vapors begin to loosen your sinuses.

Sam scootches closer, her hip and shoulder against your hip and shoulder. You feel her finger curling in your hair.

"Don't get too close," you say.

"I've dealt with worse than Carly germs. Besides, I told you I was gonna take care of you. I can't do that if I have to stay five feet away."

You finish your medicine, set the cup aside, and lay your head in the hollow of her shoulder. Her warmth is more comfortable than your pillow. "Okay, but if you get sick then I'll just have to take care of you, and then I'll get sick again, and it'll become this vicious cycle."

You can sense her smiling. "Well, you've taken care of me so many times... When I ate that old chocolate, when I had those parasites... 'Bout time I return the favor."

You feel yourself drifting toward sleep again. "If you really want to take care of me, then just... stay with me while I sleep. Please."

"Hey, this taking-care-of-you thing is gonna be easy," she says, rolling to her side to face you. You both smile. You're facing each other, your foreheads and knees your contact points, when you feel her taking your fingers in her hand.

"Sam," barely escapes your lips.

"Carls," she whispers back.

And the last thing you're aware of is her thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles, back and forth, slow and steady like a heartbeat.

You awake a couple of hours later, feeling better, and you realize Sam's medicine worked. Your headache is gone, but your mouth feels icky, and it's obvious that you've been sweating out your fever.

Sum must've rolled over; she's on her side, facing away from you with her knees drawn up. Your eyes focus on the one little vertebral knob peeking over her shirt collar. You lightly trace a circle around it with your fingertip, but you don't want to wake her, so you slide out of bed and head to the bathroom.

It feels so good to brush your teeth and spit the sickness out and watch it swirl down the drain. In the shower your still sensitive skin can feel every hot drop of water that lands on you, but the sensation is quite pleasant as you lather away the sweat and sickness with your lavender and vanilla scented body soap. Still a bit light headed, you manage to dry off without falling down, put on a loose pair of sweat shorts and T-shirt, and pad barefoot back to your bedroom.

Sam must have went downstairs while you were in the shower, because now she's laying on her back, studying the ceiling with a plate of ham slices balanced on her stomach.

"Hey kid," she says, smiling. "Feeling better?"

"Just a whole bunch," you reply. You move to the bed and lay down beside her. "But there's still some sickness left. Nothing that some more being lazy won't cure." You flop your head on your pillow for emphasis.

She pops a slice of ham into her mouth, sets the plate aside on the dresser, and turns back to you. "Well," she says between bites. "Take all the time you need... I'm not going anywhere."

Already you can feel that mixture of comfort and tiredness and warmth and relief returning to spread through your limbs, your bones, along your spine, loosening your muscles, drawing your body toward sleep. Before it does, though, your hand seeks her hand. You grasp her fingers in your palm, and you push forward just a bit to rest your lips against her forehead. You let them lay there for a second; then, with a kiss, you draw back.

"Thanks for taking care of me," you say.

Now she inches forward, not smiling, and puts a kiss right there where your chin and cheek and the corner of your mouth meet. She squeezes your hand, tilts her forehead against your, and fixes those blue eyes on yours. You've never seen such openness, so unguarded and pure.

"Always," she whispers.


End file.
